Page 67

In the week of traveling since they left the coast, the Companions fell into a rhythm. Camp, ride, camp, ride. Training Corayne when they stopped to rest the horses or sent Sigil ahead to scout. It rankled Sorasa. Rhythm meant comfort, and comfort bred carelessness, something none of them could afford. She did her best to remain vigilant, but even she felt her instincts dull.

The Dahlian Gates were behind them before she even knew it,and they began their slow march down into Ledor, a land of sheep and green-gold plains. The forests clung to the foothills, and the flat land below opened up like a book, stretching in all directions. The city of Izera was a dark spot to the west, smaller than Trisad, little more than an overgrown paddock for the many thousands of sheep and cattle grazing over the landscape. Luckily, their provisions were more than enough, and the Companions had no reason to approach the city.

Sorasa whispered a grateful prayer to Lasreen, thanking her for keeping them out of the cow-shit streets of Izera.

Their road continued northeast, through the foothill wilderness. There were no Cor roads this side of the mountains, only the Wolf’s Way. Halfway between path and road, it ran northeast from Izera, winding all the way into the steel jaws of Trec. Sorasa knew less of these lands. Her work with the Amhara had rarely brought her north of the mountains. Sigil took the lead, a wide smile never leaving her face.

We follow the Wolf’s Wayfor a month at least,Sorasa knew, grinding her teeth.Even longer if Charlie and Corayne have anything to say about it.

But even she had to admit that both the fugitive priest and the pirate’s daughter were improving. Not just in the saddle either. Corayne could finally hold a blade properly. The Spindleblade would always be too big for her, but the long dagger bought in Adira all those weeks ago suited her. Charlie did his best too, occasionally joining Corayne as a sparring partner. He was also a tremendous cook, foraging along the journey, collecting herbs and plants whenever he could.

To her own chagrin, Sorasa found herself ready for dinner now. She laid a hand on her stomach, trying to quell her hunger with will alone. It did not work.

“We’ll need to hunt tonight,” she said aloud, calling over the trailing line of Companions. They bent their heads against the slanting sun, now beginning its descent into the west. “There’s deer and rabbit in these hills. Perhaps a boar if we’re lucky.”

“I’ve still got some rosemary,” Charlie answered, patting his saddlebags. “Boar would do nicely.”

In the Amhara Guild, acolytes were fed bland food, and only enough to stay strong. Exactly what their bodies needed and no more. The practice served Sorasa well for many years.Until Charlon Armont,she thought, her mouth watering.

She reined her horse, turning the mare out of formation.

“Sigil, make camp on that rise,” she said, pointing to a flat bluff ahead. It stuck out a little higher than the foothills around it, with a copse of trees providing shelter from the wind and prying eyes. “The Elder and I will return in an hour or so.”

It was earlier than usual for them to make camp, but no one protested. After many long days riding, they were grateful for rest.

With a thump, Sorasa slid to the ground. She took her bow but left her whip and sword, its sheath tied in with her saddlebags. Andry took her reins, tying her sand mare to his with quick fingers.

Dom did the same, giving his horse over to Sigil. The Elder wore his cloak, his sword, and his scowl.

As much as Sorasa hated to admit it, hunting was much quicker and more successful with the Elder at her side. He could hear andsee for miles and smell nearly as far. They almost never returned empty-handed from a hunt.

She followed him dutifully through the woods, keeping pace a few yards behind, moving as quietly as she could. The Elder moved more silently than any Amhara, even Lord Mercury himself, and Sorasa cursed her own mortal feet every time they rustled a blade of grass.

They walked for some minutes over hilly terrain. A cool air crept down from the mountain heights, bringing mist with it. The sun broke gold, its rays like arrows through the tree branches. They had another hour or so of daylight, Sorasa knew, though she did not fear darkness in these hills. The Mountains of the Ward were at their back, stretching for hundreds of miles in an impenetrable wall. The Gallish armies could not follow them here. Even Queen Erida would not dare send her hunters so close to the Temurijon, and risk the emperor’s peace.

She kept a tight grip on her bow, a quiver at her hip, ready to take aim whenever Dom pointed. Sometimes he did it too quickly, indicating a deer already sprinting away or a bird far out of range. Sorasa suspected it was his way of insulting her without speaking.

When he suddenly dropped to a knee, she did the same, crouching to the ground. Without a word, he raised a hand and pointed a long finger through the trees, toward a clearing.

Sorasa needed little more than that. She saw the doe, fat with the bounty of autumn, her belly round as she dipped her head to graze. She was alone, thankfully, without a fawn. Sorasa had never relished the idea of killing a mother in front of her child.

Her arrow met the bowstring quietly and she drew, taking aim. She timed her heartbeat, feeling the pulse of blood through her body, letting the rhythm steady. She blew out a long, slow breath and the arrow flew through the trees, finding home below the doe’s shoulder, directly through her heart. The deer let out a wet grunt of pain and slumped over, her legs flailing once against the grass. Then she lay still, eyes glassy in the dying light.

“Venison tonight,” Sorasa muttered, standing back up.

Dom said nothing and strode toward the clearing.

Silence fell over the foothills again. The hem of his cloak dragged over the undergrowth, the only noise besides the sigh of wind in the branches. His hair blended with the autumn trees, the leaves yellow and fading green. For a moment he seemed a creature of the forest, as wild as anything in the foothills. Dom held the shape of any man, broad-shouldered and tall. But he was set apart somehow, in a way Sorasa could not explain.

She slung the bow back into place. He wouldn’t need help carrying the deer, and she hung back to wait at the clearing’s edge.

Wind and birdsong filled the air. Sorasa leaned against the trunk of a pine and tilted her head, looking up through the needles. She filled her lungs with the clean, fresh scent. In spite of all her training, her mind wandered to dinner.

“It feels different, this side of the mountains,” she said, if only to herself. “Wilder somehow.”

Dom bent to the doe’s body, working an arm under her neck to lift her onto his shoulders. He spared Sorasa a withering glance.

Then he froze, half kneeling, his face turned to the woods. Slowly, his eyes scanned the tree line.